


Cheesin'

by Friedafritz



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Busking, Guitar, M/M, Seaside
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:28:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28456086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Friedafritz/pseuds/Friedafritz
Summary: A peculiar guitarist catches Feliciano's attention one evening on the pier.
Relationships: England/North Italy (Hetalia)
Kudos: 6





	Cheesin'

One evening in January, Feliciano brushed along the pier with the little worn fronts of his shoes. He enjoyed the shallow trenches between the planks of wood and how his toes bobbed from one to the next. He had scuffed many shoes with this habit and had discontinued it for a time when the reverberating thwack of a wooden spoon stung too severely. But now that he was older and controlled the purchase and destruction of his _own_ shoes, he took no mind in picking it up again.

It had been an unusually bright week considering the season, and by that point in the evening, the orange sky was melting into blue. The air threatened a sneeze from the man’s nose and creased his lips with dryness. Though it was a stunning end to the day, he was beginning to wish he had taken his Vespa to make it faster through the cold.

Marmalade-tinted waves pulled and pushed in, as seabirds cried out farewells to the departing sun. Feliciano stared out at the sea as he rounded a corner to a better lookout point. He pulled off a mitten to caress the wooden safety railing and hummed a tune to the water. Scanning the area ahead, he caught sight of a darkish blotch in the distance. As he drew closer, the spot transfigured into a man on a bench. He had on black linen clothes and was picking the strings of a battered guitar. His hair kinked out and flittered like strawberry-blond duck tails.

Feliciano passed him a little way to the end of the walkway and pressed against the railing so that he slanted out towards the sea. The last rays of sunshine dotted the ocean waves in a strobing yellow. He smiled at the beads of saltwater that sprung up and dotted his face. High up in the sky, a curved white thread represented the waning moon.

When the pricks of noise ceased, Feliciano peaked over his shoulder to see the other man scratching a notebook with a stumpy pencil. Concentration shrunk his freckled nose and made his knuckles tremor in between chicken-scratch words. After a moment, he tossed the little book to the side and curled over the hip of his guitar once more. Fingers nestled along the neck as bitten nails started to pluck and rake strings at the heart.

Energetic melodies burst from the instrument suddenly and the man’s shoulders started to bunch and ease with his sweeping hand. Feliciano could feel his ears pleasantly heat up as the guitarist relayed a fierce passion into sharp and mesmerizing splinters of sound. Melodies escaped hesitantly, only to hiccup into another vibrant punch by the next strum. A particularly jazzy chord brought about a taut gap-toothed bite on the man’s bottom lip, sending prickles of delight down the spectator’s spine. His feet began to pop softly from heel to toe with the rhythm as the wine from an hour prior stirred delightfully in his stomach.

Specs of salt in the ocean air mirrored a brine-flavoured melancholy the man’s sugary chords attempted to coat (but rather, fostered in a brackish aftertaste). As his strumming strengthened, his finger positioning, while heavy, became slightly loose. A little quiver in his brow attempted to keep order as he scratched the guitar strings in a rapid seesaw motion. Feliciano’s eye tracked the pale hand that seemingly teleported along the oak neck and the raw pink fingertips that massaged golden frets. Salty-sweet memories danced in the spectator’s mind as the music cascaded.

He remembered sweet lemon drop saliva from his childhood that, after a particularly hard bite on the candy, fused with the coppery blood of a loose tooth. He remembered a perfumed spot nestled behind a thicket of bougainvillea and the unsought burn of a wasp sting to the side of his thigh. He remembered fuzzy delight upon receiving a shiny violin and the startling pop of a snapped string. He remembered numbed cheeks that thawed in the warm light and spiced air of his home. He remembered the refreshing sight of an acceptance letter and the first burning inhale of a cigarette to his tender lungs. He remembered a syrupy night with a smiling woman, and the stale morning she disappeared. He remembered a cold afternoon at the dog park and the enticing blue eyes of a stranger that made his chest heat up. He relived a fluffy proposal and the fervent exchange that called it off.

The guitarist’s duck tail hair bobbed with the last few harsh strums, and a look of satisfied-exhaustion overcame him as if he had just screamed out some long-held secret.

Feliciano began to applaud. “Bravo!”

A little hunch returned to the guitarist’s back, and his eyes swept the pier as if the direction of the praise were towards some other phenomenon.

The spectator then remembered the etiquette of public performances and dug into the pocket of his coat for payment. He approached the performer with a few weathered pounds and a cheeky grin.

“Oh. No, I’m not playing for that,” the guitarist waved at the gesture.

Misunderstanding his words, Feliciano groped around in his other pockets. “OK. I may have more.”

“I mean for payment. I’m not playing for money. But thank you.”

Feliciano stopped. “Why not?”

“It’s… I’m just not,” the man readjusted the guitar on his lap, grinning. “Not for these rubbish songs, anyhow.”

“I enjoyed your song.”

Bashfulness restricted the guitarist’s laughter. “I… don’t get that often.”

“What do you mean?”

“My flatmate will usually throw a shoe at me when I’m playing. Or kick me out entirely. Like tonight.”

“You mean you are here on the streets now?” Feliciano frowned.

“Ah, nearly but not quite. I’m just expelled until I stop playing. It’s much nicer out here compared to the flat anyhow.”

“Cold, though,” Feliciano shrugged in his scarf.

Streetlamps popped on in the distance.

“Since I cannot pay you, let me take you for drinks, eh? There is a café close to here. It is warm.”

“Oh, that’s all right. ’S all right. You don’t owe me any favours.”

“Well… do you need company? I would like to hear another song if you are still playing.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

Feliciano cozied onto an adjacent bench and rubbed his kneecaps. Just before the guitarist was going to pick up again, he threw out a mittened hand. “My name is Feliciano.”

The guitarist’s cold palm hugged the fabric. “I’m Arthur. ‘Pleased to meet you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not positive that there will be more writing for this story, but if I find that I have time in the upcoming months there will likely be other chapters :) Happy New Year!


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